March 1935. Three years have passed. As tensions rise across the subcontinent, the British government prepares a new deal for India. “We need to find the author of this scandal sheet.” “Sir, I will do everything in my power.” Here we go ... It’s back! And there’s a new blogger. For it is I, sahib, and I promise to be more loyal to my masters than Aafrin Dalal is to his. I must also assure regular readers that this is not a colonialist coup. Rhik Samadder, who blogged series one so addictively and entertainingly, is taking a break from reviewing to work on other projects. I realise this makes it sound as if I have liquidated him. And I do admit that it’s suspicious that he was last seen lurking near the Guardian TV department toilets clutching a cyanide pill wrapped in brown paper.

But anyway. It’s back! And call me late to the G&T-in-the-hills party, but this series looks far more pacy than the first. I don’t want to be mean to avid viewers, but it’s fair to say that the pacing was uneven (and I will admit to nodding off midway through). There were huge gaps in plot development that cost Channel 4 a lot of viewers. An audience of 2.5 million for an investment of £14m is, let’s face it, not great. This series, though, looks promising, and could find Indian Summers picking up a lot more fans.

Unless they already spent the entire budget on the lavish opening scene, that is. Here was a riot of colour followed by the obligatory bare-chested shot of regulation dreamboat Nikesh Patel (Aafrin Dalal). Who needs Poldark? This is Poldark with insurrection and hillside cocktails. And so the usual motto of Indian Summers continues: “Our happiness is nothing next to the cause.” From the start, we could see that the obviousness of some ideas here (“colourful” India contrasted with “cricket whites” colonialism) can be forgiven because of the sheer ambition of the cinematography. If this show does one thing, it’s the wonderful mix of music and colour that is unlike anything ever seen on television before. It’s a neat trick to dump us in the action three years on. So the relationship between Alice (Jemima West) and Aafrin is over and she has reluctantly reunited with her not-actually-dead-after-all husband, Charlie Havistock. Bad luck, Alice. But better luck for us, as Charlie is the Noel Cowardesque Blake Ritson, the finest of period drama actors, fondly remembered for his most excellent turn as the Duke of Kent in Upstairs Downstairs. He plays the sneeringly polite upper-class bully with finesse. “Drink up, old girl.” Meanwhile the dynamic between Alice and Aafrin is electric as ever: “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Mrs Havistock.” Cue massive illegal snogging. “Now just go to hell.”

Hurrah! Ralph Whelan (Henry Lloyd-Hughes) is pleasingly unchanged and still playing his cards close to his chest. The scenes between him and Aafrin were charged. God forbid Ralph ever take up poker – we’d all be doomed. There are already rumblings that this series will reveal the truth behind the strangely intense relationship between him and Cynthia Coffin (Julie Walters). What I love about his character is that the writers are not afraid of ambiguity or uncertainty: Ralph skirts close to wanting power, but pulls away just at the last moment. Or is he playing the longer game? We never quite know, and that’s what keeps us watching. Bravo!

Political shenanigans

What Indian Summers has always done so cleverly is to conduct a tantalising interplay between the personal and the political. This was brilliantly showcased in this opening episode, which was pitched to hold enough interest for regulars and enough exposition for new viewers who definitely wouldn’t have been scared off with in-jokes or “too much information”. Dalal’s role as the insider-turned-traitor is crucial here. And it was a wise choice to see whether he could cope with the possibility of being compromised. (Answer: he can’t. He needs cyanide. Who wouldn’t?) How much is he in control, though? And how long before he blows his cover? “Can you keep a secret? In everything I do, I am your brother and always will be.” “What does that mean?” “It means I missed you, too.” It means you are in hot water, sahib, and you better know what you are doing. Still, at least Mr Let’s-Blow-Everything-Up-Until-It’s-Raining-Hands-And-Feet has been dispensed with. (Or has he? I assume that was a killer bullet. But let’s see.)

Evil Britisher of the Week

Evil Britisher of the Week – and this is always a closely-run contest, people – was of course Sarah Raworth (Fiona Glascott). She has stood by her weaselly man, got herself knocked up again, and is attempting to close the school down so she can move back to Blighty and forget any of this ever happened. Sarah is a fantastic character. What a great scene: the delightfully horrific teacher’s wife forcing a class of Indian children to learn English by listening to her own child’s letters from boarding school about being in the “third XV at rugger”. Forget people starving to death and having no rights, it’s this kind of awfulness that makes you realise why revolutions are necessary. Toe-curlingly majestic.

Julie Walters Fan Club

I’ll be honest. Julie Walters is the only reason I started watching Indian Summers. I wish she was in every scene: the embodiment of evil in pin curls, running the Empire from a cocktail bar in a bonkers hat by facilitating the maximum amount of adultery. “I keep a little room ... Very discreet ...” Still, her plan seems to be working. The hat was perhaps the most wonderful thing ever seen on a screen: “Do you think it’s a bit, you know, top-heavy?” The jumping up and down to make the blasted doves fly out was priceless. And where better to finish than My Old Man Said Follow the Van, accompanied by the most reluctant curtsy ever executed. As my colleague Rhik put it in his series-one finale summing-up last year: “Cynthia would rather have norovirus than non-whites at her club.” And the idea of interracial snogging on the terrace ... Let’s just say the hat is likely to contain something more toxic than a dove of peace at the next drinks party. I hope Aafrin’s kept that cyanide handy.